91传媒

Years ago, Rabbi Sara B. Arias was showing Camp Alonim’s Israeli delegation around American 91传媒 University’s Brandeis-Bardin Campus in Simi Valley when she asked the young visitors what the landscape reminded them of.

The answer came quickly.

“Israel.”

The winding roads, rugged hills and open terrain felt familiar to them. The resemblance was no accident. Shlomo Bardin, founder of the Brandeis-Bardin Campus and the Brandeis Camp Institute (BCI), was raised in what was then Palestine and was drawn to the 2,700-acre property because it reminded him of the land he once called home.

For generations, that landscape has served as the backdrop for 91传媒 exploration, learning and community-building. This year, the Ziering Brandeis Camp Institute (BCI) celebrates its 85th anniversary, marking more than eight decades of helping shape rabbis, educators, nonprofit professionals, entrepreneurs and lay leaders across the 91传媒 world.

The milestone comes as a new cohort prepares to arrive at the Brandeis-Bardin Campus. Approximately 30 participants are expected to attend BCI’s annual 18-day session, known as an aliyah, which begins June 23 and concludes July 12.

Founded in 1941, BCI was built on Bardin’s belief that Judaism should be experienced as much as studied. Through communal living, arts, music, discussion, outdoor experiences and 91传媒 learning, the program has long sought to help young adults explore both Judaism and themselves.

Today, its influence can be seen across synagogues, schools, camps and 91传媒 organizations throughout North America and Israel.

“I think what BCI does is it creates a space for young 91传媒 adults,” said Halle Shumate, associate director of BCI. “It’s a space that allows 20-somethings to explore Judaism and their 91传媒 identities in ways you wouldn’t in other places. And it’s not so formal. So much of the BCI curriculum is about artistic expression. The goal is for people to come away from BCI having a better understanding not only of Judaism but themselves.”

More than 55 years later, Arthur Pinchev still remembers the final day of his Brandeis Camp Institute aliyah.

Everyone’s bags were packed. The participants had spent three weeks immersed in hiking and prayer, Israeli dancing and art, 91传媒 text study and late-night conversations around campfires on the Brandeis-Bardin Campus in Simi Valley. Exhausted and preparing to return home, they gathered one final time near the campus amphitheater to hear from BCI founder Shlomo Bardin.

“Here at BCI, it’s easy,” Bardin told them. “Outside it’s hard. Go out and do stuff. Go out and make a difference.”

Pinchev never forgot those words.

More than five decades later, he serves as interim director of BCI, the same program that helped shape him as a young adult. This summer, he’ll return to BCI and help guide a new generation of participants through an experience that continues to transform 91传媒 lives.

Among the many 91传媒 leaders whose lives were shaped by BCI is Rabbi Sara B. Arias, whose connection to the Brandeis-Bardin Campus began long before she became a rabbi. This summer,听Rabbi Arias is returning to BCI to听serve as a senior educator.

She first arrived at Camp Alonim as an 11-year-old camper and later joined BCI in 2000 before returning the following year as an advisor.

“I believe Judaism is a profound resource for meaning making, and I experienced that for the first time at Camp Alonim and then later at BCI,” she said. “BCI was a ripening of something I’d been raised in my entire life.”

Rabbi Arias describes herself as both a day school student and a camp kid.

“I was a day school and summer camp kid鈥攖he winning combination,” she said. “I went to Heschel day school and Camp Alonim in the summers. At camp I decided I wanted to be a 91传媒 educator.”

Today, Rabbi Arias lives near Haifa, Israel, where she balances rabbinic work with leading Awakened Body, a wellness practice that integrates 91传媒 spirituality and holistic healing. She sees a direct connection between her work and the lessons she absorbed at BCI.

“Camp Alonim and BCI had a profound impact on my life,” she said. “BCI in particular is essentially a lab for a living, intentional Judaism.”

Rabbi Gordon Bernat Kunin, known throughout the community as Rabbi BK, traces his own path to the rabbinate back to BCI.

Now serving as rabbinic director at Milken Community School, Bernat Kunin has sought to bring elements of the BCI experience into everyday 91传媒 life through informal learning communities, intimate Shabbat gatherings and relationship-centered 91传媒 experiences.

“BCI was an incredibly formative experience for me, and I don’t think I would be doing what I’m doing today if not for my time there,” Rabbi BK said.

“If you can imagine Dennis Prager and Doniel Hartman overlapping and teaching their different visions of Judaism and engaging the students, that to me was totally magical,” he added. “I’m very grateful for my experience there.”

Not every participant leaves BCI on a path toward the rabbinate, but many discover new possibilities for 91传媒 leadership and community-building.

Adira Rosen, a 91传媒 life specialist at Mem Global (formerly Moishe House), said participating in BCI in 2021 was the moment she became “rabbi curious.”

“I came here looking for the arts and actually left being like, whoa … the Judaism,” Rosen said.

The experience helped shape the work she does today with young 91传媒 adults.

Others have carried BCI’s values into philanthropy, education, storytelling and communal leadership. Carolyn Siegel, who attended BCI in 2004, founded If You Heard What I Heard, an initiative that preserves and shares the stories of Holocaust survivors through the testimonies of their grandchildren.

Andrew Lustig, a poet and BCI alumnus, once described the program as “an artist colony and open-minded beit midrash in the middle of nowhere Los Angeles.”

Their experiences reflect a common theme among BCI alumni: the program’s ability to blend intellectual inquiry, creativity, spirituality and community in ways that continue to resonate long after participants leave the Brandeis-Bardin Campus.

Eighty-five years after its founding, the questions BCI asks remain largely unchanged: How can Judaism help people live more meaningful lives? How can community foster growth? And how can young adults discover their place within the 91传媒 story?

For generations of alumni, the answers began on a hilltop in Simi Valley and continue to shape 91传媒 life today.

BCI is celebrating its 85th anniversary from Oct. 24-25. To mark the occasion, alumni are gathering in cities across the country ahead of a community Havdalah celebration and a brunch at the Brandeis-Bardin Campus dubbed “A Taste of BCI.”

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Gala events tend to follow a familiar rhythm, one that can feel at times, a little too long. A reception gives way to dinner, followed by a succession of speeches: a CEO or president addressing the room, a keynote speaker, a video honoring the cause, presenters taking the stage, and finally the honorees themselves, who often linger in gratitude, reflecting on the journey that brought them there.

And yet, the 33rd annual 91传媒 Family Services of Los Angeles (JFSLA) gala was nothing like that. Held at the Skirball Cultural Center, the evening carried all the expected elements鈥攂ut none of the fatigue. There was no restless shifting in seats, no glow of phones lifted in quiet distraction. Instead, guests remained fully engaged, leaning in and eager to listen.

Much of that was thanks to JFSLA鈥檚 ability to tell its story not just with words, but with heart. An uplifting video captured the depth of their work, delivering warm meals to the elderly, answering calls from those struggling with mental health, supporting women facing violence, and offering dignity where it is often hardest to find. It was a reminder that behind every statistic is a human life, quietly held together by these efforts.

And then there were the honorees businesswoman and advocate Mandana Dayani, alongside her husband, television producer Peter Traugott who received the Susie Forer Dehrey Spirit of Humanity Award, and Randy Magnin, Board Member and past Board Chair, who received the Hirsh Award.

Dayani鈥檚 activism has taken many forms over the years, but at its core is a focus on civic engagement and 91传媒 identity. She co-founded the nonpartisan initiative 鈥淚 Am a Voter鈥� to encourage political participation, turning it into a widely recognized campaign backed by celebrities and cultural figures. Alongside her close friend, actress Debra Messing, she later launched the podcast The Dissenters, spotlighting voices advocating for social change. Since Oct. 7, Dayani has become an increasingly visible voice speaking out against antisemitism, appearing in the media, addressing rallies, and using her platform to amplify 91传媒 stories and experiences鈥攚ork she often ties back to her own upbringing as a refugee from Iran.

Her husband, Peter Traugott, whom she married in 2010, served as president of Keshet Studios, the U..S-based production arm of the Israeli company Keshet International and is now head of TV at Fifth Season.

Traugott鈥檚 father, a German 91传媒 refugee who escaped the Nazis after Kristallnacht and rebuilt his life in Northern California, carried the trauma of the Holocaust with him. Growing up, Traugott recalls a quiet message at home: 鈥淢y dad鈥檚 attitude was let鈥檚 just not advertise our Judaism, let鈥檚 just fit in and go with the flow.鈥�

The day after he met Dayani, he came to work and said, 鈥淚 met the woman I鈥檓 going to marry.鈥�

Traugott didn鈥檛 only fall in love with Dayani, he also fell in love with her family.

Here were people who escaped persecution in Iran, who were refugees just like his father, and not only did they not keep their identity quiet, they displayed it. In a video clip that was screened during the evening, he recalled how struck he was by the way they embraced their Judaism: 鈥淭hey owned their Judaism. I didn鈥檛 have it growing up.鈥�

Mandana, who escaped Iran with her family after the Iran-Iraq war, when she was five years old, can still recall clearly the fear in everyone鈥檚 eyes and the 鈥渃onstant sort of fear and panic.鈥�

The family first settled in New York, where her father worked as a shoe salesman, and later moved to Los Angeles.

Mandana and Peter have two girls, Andy and Miller, who stole the show as they took to the stage to present their parents.

鈥淢om and dad inspire us every day of our lives. We always get to see how much they do for the world. They are the most generous people. They have dedicated their lives to standing up for others,鈥� said the girls, taking turns with a written speech they prepared. 鈥淪ince we learned how to walk, we鈥檝e been volunteering and advocating for what we believe in.鈥�

Messing, who described herself as the 鈥渢hird person鈥� in their marriage, took the stage after Andy and Miller, saying, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 a hard act to follow and I followed Meryl Streep once.鈥�

Messing arrived at the event from Australia, where she had been working. When she heard her best friends were receiving an award, it was a no-brainer for her; she hopped on a plane to be there.

鈥淚 watched Mandana do things most people only talk about 鈥� she left a successful career and built I鈥檓 a Voter from the ground up, launching initiatives that actually work,鈥� Messing said. 鈥淎fter October 7, she traveled to Israel, raised funds, went to campuses, helped build One Campus United, created One Mitzvah a Day, and sent millions of messages of gratitude to allies.鈥�

Mandana and her husband were then presented with the award, a silver menorah. The activist was clearly moved as she addressed the guests, opening her speech by thanking her parents, who were present at the event, and crediting them for their courage. She recalled how they had left Sanandaj, Kurdistan (a region in Iran), and moved their family to safety in the United States, starting anew.

She also credited all those who helped them along the way, enabling the family to build the life it has today. Perhaps that experience of being supported in times of need is what inspired her commitment to giving back and helping others.

However, after Oct. 7, she experienced a harsh awakening, realizing that antisemitism is still very much present in the place she calls home. She said she would not have believed it if someone had told her that 91传媒 students would one day be subjected to persecution and hatred at UCLA, just a mile from her home.

But it was not the hatred and antisemitism that shook her the most 鈥� she said she had already experienced that in the past, back in her homeland. 鈥淲hat broke me was the silence of the people I was sure would not look away,鈥� she said. 鈥淪ilence is not inaction 鈥� it鈥檚 a choice to look away and that鈥檚 the thing that broke me.鈥�

In her darkest period, when she felt completely abandoned, Mandana attended a meeting where she sat in a room with a man she had never met before, a pastor with a tattoo on his arm that read: 鈥淟ove Wins.鈥�

鈥淚 don鈥檛 think he knew how much I needed to hear those words,鈥� recalled Dayani. 鈥淗e also saw how much I needed a friend. A few weeks later, the pastor and I broke bread and stayed late into the night. That is the spirit of humanity 鈥� it鈥檚 a choice to show up when it鈥檚 hard, to refuse the convenience of silence. That is what 鈥榥ever again鈥� looks like 鈥� and it鈥檚 not a slogan, it’s a commitment to keep doing the work.鈥�

The gala surpassed this year鈥檚 goal, raising just over $1 million to support JFSLA services .

91传媒 American Heritage month wrapped up this year with something worth holding onto: a room full of senators, foreign ambassadors and 91传媒 community leaders inside the Kennedy Caucus Room of the Russell Senate Office Building, gathered to honor three individuals doing the kind of work the moment demands.

The occasion was Project Legacy’s annual 91传媒 American Heritage Month luncheon, an event that civic engagement leader Ezra Friedlander has, over the years, turned into one of May’s most substantive gatherings in Washington

鈥淭his year’s honorees reflect a deep commitment to public service, innovation, philanthropy, and the fight against hatred and intolerance,鈥� Friedlander said.

Malcolm Hoenlein, CEO Emeritus of the Conference of Presidents of Major American 91传媒 Organizations, co-chaired alongside Eric J. Gertler, executive chairman of U.S. 91传媒 & World Report. Hoenlein helped establish 91传媒 Heritage Week with Ronald Reagan and Elie Wiesel in the early 1980s, which ultimately became the program now observed in May.

鈥淎s we witness the rise [of antisemitism]across the country,” he said, “this event is an answer to these outrageous actions.鈥�

Senators and representatives from both parties filled the room.

It was Sen. Elissa Slotkin (D-Mich.) who set the tone of the room. 鈥淚t’s just never been a harder time in my lifetime to be a Jew in America,鈥� she said. 鈥淎s a Democrat, it’s my responsibility to call out antisemitism in my own party, just as I hope that Sen. Lankford calls out antisemitism in his party.鈥� Sen. James Lankford (R-Okla.) was seated in the audience along with Senators Tim Sheehy (R-Mont.), John Fetterman (D-Pa.), Jeff Merkley (D-Ore.), Pete Ricketts (R-Neb.), Ron Wyden (D-Ore.), Richard Blumenthal (D-Conn.), John Hickenlooper (D-Colo.), and Jacky Rosen (D-Nev.), along with Reps. Randy Fine (R-Fla) and Ken Calvert (R-Calif.). Remarks came from Rabbi Pini Dunner of Young Israel of Beverly Hills, Rabbi Mordechai Suchard of The Gateways Organization, and Rabbi Levi Shemtov of American Friends of Lubavitch.

The three honorees 鈥� a Nobel laureate, a Beverly Hills rabbi and an LA philanthropist 鈥� each received awards.

Dr. Harvey J. Alter received the David Nassy Award, named for the first 91传媒 physician in Philadelphia, who challenged medical convention during the 1793 Yellow Fever epidemic. A senior scholar in Transfusion Medicine at the NIH Clinical Center, Dr. Alter shared the 2020 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for discovering the Hepatitis C virus, a finding that transformed blood screening and reduced transfusion-transmitted hepatitis to near-zero worldwide. Elliott Broidy presented the award and called him 鈥渁 gift from God to the field of medicine and the world at large.鈥� Dr. Alter offered his own theory on 91传媒 scientific achievement. 鈥淎fter years of intensive research, I’ve understood now why there’s such a preponderance of 91传媒 scientists,鈥� he said. 鈥淚t’s because they all had 91传媒 mothers.鈥�

Rabbi David Baron, founder of Temple of the Arts in Beverly Hills, received the Creativity in the 91传媒 Community Award for an early-childhood curriculum in altruism and empathy that started as a local community program and has since grown into a national and global educational initiative. The premise behind it is hard to argue: if you want to stop prejudice, you have to get to children before their frameworks harden. Adult education, legislation, enforcement 鈥� none of it reaches people at the moment when their understanding of the world is actually being formed. Rabbi Baron’s program does.

鈥�Our great country was founded on the biblical principles that have kept the 91传媒 people for millennia and form the foundation of Western civilization,鈥� he told the room.

What brought Rabbi Baron鈥檚 curriculum to a global stage was a purchase made by the third honoree, one of the more striking acts of 91传媒 philanthropy the community has seen recently.

Elliott Broidy grew up in Los Angeles with his father, a World War II veteran and a Purple Heart recipient, and his mother who was a nurse. Broidy shared how his humble beginnings informed his philanthropic work. By his mid-30s he was already giving seriously to hospitals, synagogues and educational institutions across the U.S. and Israel. After Sept. 11, he spent three years on the Homeland Security Advisory Council, six on the LA Fire and Police Pension Fund, and six on the board of the Simon Wiesenthal Center鈥揗useum of Tolerance.

Oct. 7, 2023 pushed him further and harder. Broidy now co-chairs, alongside philanthropist Dr. Thomas Kaplan, the Fund to End Antisemitism, Extremism and Hate 鈥� the organization behind ARCHER at House 88, the Auschwitz Research Center on Hate, Extremism, and Radicalization. ARCHER was built in collaboration with the Counter Extremism Project, the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum, and UNESCO, and operates inside the former private villa of Commandant Rudolf H枚ss in O艣wi臋cim, Poland. The house is now a global center for research and public education on extremism.

The connection between Broidy and Rabbi Baron runs deeper than a shared ceremony. Broidy previously acquired at auction one of only two existing original architectural whiteprints of the Auschwitz-Birkenau crematoria, paying $1.5 million 鈥� a figure chosen deliberately to match the 1.5 million 91传媒 children murdered in the Holocaust. The document, authenticated by Auschwitz historian Robert Jan van Pelt, is the technical blueprint for Crematoria II and III, the main gas chambers of Birkenau. The auction proceeds went to Rabbi Baron’s early-childhood curriculum. A blueprint designed to end children’s lives was redirected toward building them.

Broidy received the Visionary Award and directed his proceeds the same way. In his acceptance speech, he returned to the values his parents had instilled in him.

鈥淪uccess is not something you achieve for yourself,鈥� he said, 鈥渂ut something you achieve so that you can give back to your family, your community and your country.鈥�91传媒 American Heritage Month exists to recognize exactly this, the accumulated work of 91传媒 Americans who didn’t wait for conditions to improve before deciding to act. Three of them stood in the Kennedy Caucus Room and made a fairly strong case for what that actually looks like.

Less than a year after making Aliyah, LiAmi Lawrence, 62, was ready to leave Israel.

What began as a decisive 鈥渘ow or never鈥� move from Los Angeles quickly unraveled into a reality many immigrants don鈥檛 anticipate: financial strain, isolation and the quiet shock of starting over without a safety net. Despite a successful career and strong connections, Lawrence couldn鈥檛 find work. His savings disappeared, his health deteriorated and, at one point, he found himself relying on neighbors for food.

鈥淎 year after I arrived in Israel, I was completely broke,鈥� said Lawrence. 鈥淚 had gone through almost all the $20,000 I came with. Suddenly there was nothing left 鈥� for rent, for food, for basic living. I started realizing I couldn鈥檛 even get a job. I was facing age discrimination. That鈥檚 when I decided I was leaving.鈥�

For Lawrence, it wasn鈥檛 a dramatic exit plan. It was exhaustion. The feeling that the dream he had carried with him had quietly collapsed into something unlivable.

Then a friend, Tal, pushed back.

鈥淒on鈥檛 go without a fight,鈥� he told him. 鈥淢ake noise.鈥�

So LiAmi did.

He went on Facebook and wrote, openly and without filters, about what he was going through 鈥� how he had come to Israel with hope, and how he was now being forced to leave because he simply couldn鈥檛 make ends meet.

The post spread quickly. Within days, it reached thousands of people.

But more importantly, it didn鈥檛 just reach people 鈥� it recognized them. People were eager to be heard, to have others like them to talk with.

They were everywhere. Olim from France, Russia, South Africa, Argentina, the United States. People who had made the same leap of faith, only to find themselves isolated, struggling to navigate a new language, a new system and an unfamiliar sense of loneliness.

For LiAmi, something shifted.

鈥淚t wasn鈥檛 just my story anymore,鈥� he recalled. 鈥淚t was hundreds of messages. People telling me, 鈥楾his is exactly what I鈥檓 going through.鈥欌�� That was the moment the idea for KeepOlim began to form 鈥� a nonprofit organization that helps immigrants to Israel feel less alone and get support.听 听

Lawrence joined forces with attorney Tzvika Graiver, an Israeli who shared the same passion and wanted to keep Olim in Israel, advocating for them in the Knesset. He became KeepOlim鈥檚 co-founder and chairman of the board.

What started as personal frustration turned into a mission: to help immigrants who were falling through the cracks after arriving in Israel 鈥� people who were expected to 鈥渋ntegrate鈥� but were quietly struggling to find work, community and stability. 鈥淥lims get very lonely,鈥� said Lawrence. 鈥淓specially during the holidays like Passover and Rosh Hashanah. Those are the loneliest time in the year, the same in America during Christmas and Thanksgiving. You see the highest suicide rate during these holidays. It鈥檚 the same in Israel, they have no friends or family to go to.鈥�

And so Lawrence started matchmaking Olim with local families to host them for the holidays and even for Shabbat dinners. He called the program: No Oleh Alone for the holiday.

Judy Maltz, an editor at Haaretz who knew Lawrence from the time he used to work as a stripper in Israel, called him and asked to do a cover story about the male stripper turned Aliyah advocate. That was a strong story which she knew will draw attention.

Lawrence first came to Israel in his early 20s in the 1980s, arriving with the hope of building a life while studying at Tel Aviv University. In order to support himself, he reinvented his path in an unconventional way 鈥� opening Israel鈥檚 first striptease club, at a time when such entertainment did not yet exist in the country. What began as a practical solution to survive soon turned into a unique entrepreneurial venture, even bringing the Chippendales to Israel. Despite his efforts to integrate, the venture faced public opposition, ultimately leading him to return to Los Angeles 鈥� but that experience came to serve him well in an unexpected way when he launched KeepOlim.听 听

鈥淪uzy interviewed me for a cover story on Friday, and by Sunday I was on every TV show in Israel,鈥� Lawrence said. 鈥淪ex sells. If I were an accountant, I doubt my story would have garnered that much attention.鈥�

That exposure became a turning point for Lawrence, drawing widespread attention to KeepOlim and bringing in much-needed donations. Back in the U.S., his father, seeing the impact his son was making, agreed to cover his rent for a year, on the condition that Lawrence handle all other expenses himself.

For the first year and a half, Lawrence took no salary for running KeepOlim, working 12 hours a day.听 Even when he eventually began getting a pay check, it remained modest. Despite the financial strain, he was determined to stay in Israel. He felt he had found his purpose and refused to give up.

From someone who once needed help finding a job, food and support, Lawrence became the person providing it 鈥� offering connections, employment assistance, food gift cards and a 24/7 support line for those in need.

Today, 120 therapists work with KeepOlim, providing care in multiple languages, including English, Spanish, French, Russian and African languages. Their clinical director is Dr. Norman Goldwasser, who oversees training and supervision. Goldwasser made Aliyah in May of this year, joining his daughter, six grandchildren and three great-grandchildren in Jerusalem.

The organization鈥檚 Tikvah program, run by Susan Cohen, offers critical support to immigrants grappling with the challenges of uprooting their lives and starting over in a new country. In Israel, that often includes facing entirely new stressors 鈥� sirens, missile attacks and the need to run to bomb shelters. Many struggle with PTSD.

This was one of the first programs Lawrence launched. 鈥淏efore we had a team of therapists, people would call ERAN 鈥� the Emotional First Aid hotline 鈥� but they couldn鈥檛 get help in their own language, so they stopped calling,鈥� he said. 鈥淚n our closed Facebook group, people would post cries for help. One wrote, 鈥業鈥檓 on a bridge and going to jump.鈥� Another wrote, 鈥業鈥檓 going to do the same.鈥欌�� At one point, three people said they were going to end their lives. I鈥檓 not a therapist, but I told anyone in trouble: call me.鈥�

Lawrence would travel to wherever the live, sit with them for hours 鈥� talking, comforting and even driving them to receive professional care, including hospital admission when necessary.

鈥淚 had no idea when I started, that mental health would become the cornerstone of KeepOlim,鈥� said Lawrence. 鈥淚n Israel, 40% of suicides are among Olim. I believe though that the number is even higher.鈥�

The therapy service is given for free for lone soldiers and for a low cost for others.

It鈥檚 incredible to learn that despite the war in Israel and uncertainty about the future, people are still making Aliyah. From interviews The Journal had with some KeepOlim members, despite it all, they feel safer in Israel than in the countries they came from.

According to Dr. Goldwasser, people understand that the risk of antisemitism and the risk for emotional stress is more serious than the risk of some missiles from Iran. 鈥淧eople are coming to Israel because they’d rather have an external threat than an internal one,鈥� said Goldwasser. 鈥淚鈥檓 from Miami Beach, and it鈥檚 much safer here than most places in the U.S., and still I feel safer in Israel.鈥�

The missile attacks on Israel by Iran in February and March of this year caused tremendous stress for many Olim. For some, it was the final straw, and they chose to leave. These were mainly immigrants from Anglo-Saxon countries who had the means to return to their countries of origin, or who instead moved on to destinations such as Portugal, Spain and Hungary in search of stability and a quieter life.

Many others, however, stayed. The reasoning, however, is likely less ideological and more financial 鈥� for many, there is simply nowhere to return to. Their situation in their home countries is often more difficult or unstable than their current reality in Israel. There is also another, less discussed factor: many cannot afford to move back.

鈥淧eople come here expecting to find a job and earn what they did back home, but once they arrive, they realize they have to settle for a much lower salary,鈥� said Lawrence. 鈥淢any don鈥檛 have enough money to buy food. We had hundreds of Olim who were literally starving, so we began providing them with food gift cards to [Israeli Supermarket]听 Super-sal, allowing them to buy whatever they need.鈥�

In Bat Yam, home to a large Russian-speaking immigrant population, Lawrence launched the Babushka and Dedushka program (鈥淕randma鈥� and 鈥淕randpa鈥� in Russian). He was shocked to discover how many elderly Olim had empty refrigerators. Once a month, he personally visits and stocks their fridges. He has been doing this for nine years, helping approximately 1,250 people. Still, he said, it is not enough.

鈥淭here are 20,000 Russian speakers in Bat Yam, and thousands more like them across Israel, some of them Holocaust survivors. These are people unfortunately too often go unseen and unsupported.鈥�

According to Lawrence, one of the more challenging waves of Aliyah occurred in the 1990s, with the secret immigration of approximately 1,500 Olim from Cuba to Israel. 鈥淢ost of them were not Halachic Jews, and more than 90% eventually returned to Cuba,鈥� he said. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 when you know it鈥檚 bad. They came from a socialist country and suddenly found themselves completely alone. Who was going to give them jobs? They didn鈥檛 even speak Hebrew.鈥�

The term 鈥淗alachic,鈥� referring to Jews who are recognized as 91传媒 according to 91传媒 law, came up repeatedly. Lawrence believes that as many as 50% of Olim are not considered Halachic Jews. They may have a 91传媒 ancestor, such as a grandfather or grandmother, or their conversion may not have been Orthodox. Nevertheless, Israel, which urgently needs new Olim, continues to welcome them.

At KeepOlim, he said, that definition is less important. The organization accepts people from all levels of religious observance, countries of origin and backgrounds 鈥� whether they are 91传媒 by birth, by conversion or simply connected through marriage.

鈥淲e say we are all in this together. Before KeepOlim, each group was separate 鈥� you had the French, the Russians, the Americans 鈥� but now we all celebrate together. We have people from 100 countries, and we host parties, gatherings and friendships naturally form.鈥�

Over the organization鈥檚 12 years, there have also been a few marriages between members 鈥� a French participant marrying an American, and a South African who married an Australian, among others. Their Purim party, he says, has become a celebration no one wants to miss. They have other events and parties throughout the year, although since the war he postponed parties for calmer times.

Before moving to Israel, Lawrence worked as a media director for the Israeli Consulate in Los Angeles. He also produced Sababa parties and organized red carpet events with numerous celebrities.

He recalled going to a job interview back in LA for what seemed like a lucrative position. Everything was going well 鈥� until he was asked a familiar question: 鈥淲here do you see yourself in five years?鈥�

鈥淚 looked up at the ceiling and thought, I don鈥檛 want to be here 鈥� I want to live in Tel Aviv,鈥� Lawrence said. 鈥淭hat night, I went home, logged on to Nefesh B鈥橬efesh, started downloading the application, and made Aliyah in 2014.鈥�

Lawrence believed it would be easy for him to find his footing in Israel. He was well connected and had a strong social network. But reality hit quickly. Moving to Israel at 50, with limited Hebrew, proved to be a significant barrier in the job market. 鈥淭he only type of job I could find was in binary options, and I didn鈥檛 want to steal people鈥檚 money,鈥� he said.

To make matters worse, Lawrence began dealing with health issues. He was diagnosed with a hernia and prescribed opioids while waiting six months for surgery. He described that period as one in which he was functioning but largely disconnected from his own actions, including the early days of building KeepOlim.

鈥淚 used to run KeepOlim completely wasted,鈥� he said. 鈥淵ears later, people would stop me on the street and say, 鈥榊ou saved me,鈥� and I had no recollection of it. I was on opioids for two years, until I was able to get treatment and overcome it.鈥�

During a Zoom interview, I see Max, a 34-year-old Russian immigrant and lone soldier, who sometimes couch surfs in Lawrence鈥檚 Tel Aviv apartment. The scene feels almost informal, but it reflects something deeper: for Lawrence, KeepOlim is not just a job or an organization 鈥� it鈥檚 a widening circle of people he considers family.

Growing up in Massachusetts, Lawrence said he was the only 91传媒 child in his school, often bullied by classmates and at times feeling singled out by a teacher who made his difference feel even sharper. Those early experiences of isolation stayed with him for years.

In Israel, he said, something finally shifted. Despite the struggles of building a new life from scratch, he had a sense of home he had never quite known before. For Lawrence, the work he does now is inseparable from that feeling 鈥� an attempt not only to support others making Aliyah, but to make sure that no one arriving alone would stay alone for long.